Esoteric
by Lisa87
Summary: The reappearance of John Reese is anything but what Detective Lionel Fusco expected. Post season 3 finale (3x23).
1. Chapter 1

**AN:** I wrote this back when the season 3 finale had just aired but got insanely busy with work and didn't get around to finishing it. I'm posting it now because I wanted to have it done before the season 4 premiere. It should be three chapters. This first chapter and most of the second were done a while back. Now I just need to get the third down on paper. My plan is to have it done before the S4 premiere, but we shall see how that goes. Note that this was written before all the S4 spoilers. Though, I'm actually quite impressed with myself because it ended up following in line with most of the spoilers anyway. Enjoy!

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Person of Interest. I am merely borrowing for my own enjoyment and am not making any money from this work of fiction. No copyright infringement intended._

~o~

The air was warm and crisp in lower Manhattan that day, the sun bright and exuberant, and yet its residents appeared strangely impervious to nature's generous benefactions. With the exception of the occasional tourist—the number of which also appeared oddly low—the people of Greenwich Village seemed almost too eager to reach their destinations for such a favorable day. Between Waverly Place and West 3rd Street, on the section of MacDougal Street thus named Washington Square West, a police cruiser pulled up against the curb. Out climbed a short, stout man, gun and badge briefly visible beneath his suit jacket before he straightened.

Detective Lionel Fusco was less than pleased, the door to the cruiser slamming shut so loudly in his wake that one might have feared it would become unhinged; its owner, after all, was clearly on the verge of doing just that. Tugging at his neckline and loosening his tie against the warm air he glanced around furtively as if suddenly realizing that announcing his arrival in such a ruckus manner probably hadn't been the best course of action. His attempted reversal of tactics was perhaps nonsensical on his part, however, considering he was in one of the most heavily surveilled parts of the city; attempting to hide in such an area was an entirely laughable prospect.

Fusco muttered darkly under his breath, daring someone to object to his parking in a no parking zone, something of which, of course, wouldn't happen. The perks of the badge and driving a police cruiser, and Fusco was damned if he didn't deserve some of those perks right about now. If he received any more calls from rookies today—_or_ his boss, for that matter, Fusco was going to toss his phone into the river. Becoming the illustrious detective Fusco following Simmons' arrest wasn't all it was cracked up to be, that was for sure, especially not now during the dismal like times they were all facing.

He stormed across the street, heading for Washington Square Park, cursing even the sun for shinning, convinced it was simply mocking him. Because, it wasn't only the chaos of his job that had him in such a mood today. No, today it was his job, _and_ now _this_. Whatever _this_ was. As usual Fusco had no idea. What he did know, however, was that he was pretty darn sure he had correctly identified the source of the less than cryptic message telling him to meet here, and if he was right—which he was ninety-nine point nine percent sure he was—he was going to give the son of a bitch a piece of his mind. What he didn't acknowledge—because he'd shoot himself in the leg with his own gun before ever admitting it—was the relief he'd felt upon receiving the message earlier that day.

But right now, Fusco was about as far from relieved as one could get. No, right now Fusco was fuming mad. After entering the park from its west side he now stood at the base of one of its monuments.

_Where_ the hell _was_ he then? What did he think? That Fusco had nothing better to do than stand around here waiting?

A kid on a bicycle zoomed past, nearly taking Fusco's arm with him. "Hey! Watch it!" Fusco yelled after him.

Just bloody brilliant. Just great. Just how he wanted to spend his afternoon. As usual the park was bustling with activity; kids on bikes, rollerblades, and skateboards; people walking their dogs, jogging, running; people chattering away on cell phones etc, etc. In addition to the usual buzz of activity fitting for Washington Square Park on a sunny summer day, however, was the sense of heightened anxiety that had gradually grown over the city in recent months. It was rarely acknowledged aloud, but you'd have to be near dead to be completely oblivious to it. Fusco, as an NYPD homicide detective, had a front row seat. What was it…double? Triple? _Triple _the number of homicides and unexplained deaths in this past month alone. Ever since the blackout something had shifted, something sinister, and while Fusco couldn't even begin to explain exactly what it was, he was far from oblivious to it.

He scanned the crowds of people, his irate mood mounting. The man should be easy to spot, given that he towered over the average person in height. If he was here, Fusco should be able to spot him. Then again, if he didn't want to be seen…

Someone's cell phone rang loudly from nearby.

And continued ringing.

Until Fusco realized.

"What the hell…?" he muttered, pulling out the foreign phone from his pocket and glancing around him in a futile attempt to determine how it had ended up in his suit pocket. The cursed thing kept up its incessant demand to be answered, much to Fusco's consternation. He shook his head, incredulous. Who was he kidding? He knew exactly how it had gotten there. If he hadn't already been certain with whom he was dealing with, he was now. This had one person's name written all over it.

Well, maybe two. There was never one without the other, after all. At least not in Fusco's experience.

"Hello, Lionel."

The low voice that came through the line was all too familiar, and the completely languid tone and elementary greeting, as if the bastard was simply calling to discuss the weather, was the last straw for Fusco.

"_Hello, Lionel?_" Fusco echoed, with a great deal more gusto injected into his tone. "_Three_ months,"—his fingers flew up and jabbed at the air for emphasis—"three months and I don't hear nothing from you—from _any_ of you—no call, no text, no email. _Nothing_, nada, zip, not a _peep_. It's as if you'd just dropped off the face of the earth, the whole damn lot of you, and all you've got to say is, _Hello, Lionel?_"

There might have been some kind of reply from the other end of the line, possibly in the form of a long sigh, but Fusco was loath to hear it.

"I mean, I know we weren't exactly _The Brady Bunch_," he went on, "but I should think we were at least a team. How many times have I laid my ass on the line for you and your four-eyed friend, huh? How many times have I _saved_ your sorry ass? And did I ever get any thanks? Oh, no. It was always just do this, Lionel, do that, Lionel. Or call Fusco because he doesn't have anything better to do than to play sidekick to a bunch of—"

"I don't have time for this, Lionel," the voice on the other end of the line interrupted. "And I need you to do two things for me."

A sound escaped Fusco that was somewhere between a laugh and a snort. "You've got to be kidding me!"

"I rarely kid."

"_You_ don't have time for this?" Fusco barked, and this time he did laugh, bitterly. "Oh, that's good, that's _real_ good." He laughed again in utter contempt. "_You_ were the one that told me to come all the way down here. And— where the hell are you, anyway? We here to meet or what? Because, you know what—"

"We _are_ here to meet, detective. Just as soon as you stop scanning the park for me every five seconds."

Fusco opened his mouth, closed it. Made an indignant sound of disbelief, and resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder and look for the man he had deemed to call _Bane Of My Existence_.

"That's better. We really need to work on your fieldwork skills, detective. Merge and mingle. Survival 101."

Okay, if he wasn't already, Fusco was really, _really_ starting to get pissed off.

"And I need you to take out your phone, destroy it," the voice added.

"Destroy my…" Fusco made another abject sound. "Destroy my phone," he repeated dubiously. "You want me to destroy my phone. You gonna pick up the tab on that, because I doubt 'my dog ate it' will go over well with my boss."

"Just do it, Lionel." The voice on the other end of the line was notably losing patience.

Fusco was shaking his head, muttering "unbelievable" under his breath, and looking more than a little furious, yet still he did as bid, something that from an outsider's perspective was perhaps quite surprising.

The detective was certainly making it no secret of his displeasure, however. After grudgingly stomping on his phone and discarding it in a nearby waste bin, he straightened and caught the foreign phone he'd been holding up to his ear with his shoulder in his hand again. "You know what," he began, "never getting any _thank you_s, I can live with, but if you're not even going to—"

Fusco's ultimatum died on his lips. When he turned back around to face the park, the man was striding toward him, footsteps and movements marked with such dexterity that Fusco had heard nothing of his approach.

The drastic change in demeanor when the detective caught sight of the taller man was telling. It was an odd partnership, to be sure, but if one was paying close enough attention, particularly in that moment, one would see that, while unconventional in a multitude of ways, and, judging by the belligerent wordplay between the two, denied by both, the two men could be none other than friends.

"Christ, what the hell happened to you?" Fusco's anger had evaporated from one second to the next, and there was a note in his voice that, if he wasn't careful, almost sounded like concern.

He lowered his phone, eyes remaining trained on the approaching figure of John Reese before him.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own Person of Interest. I am merely borrowing for my own enjoyment and am not making any money from this work of fiction. No copyright infringement intended._

o~O~o

The people milled about, the park security roaming. It was near impossible for any one individual to stand out from another.

The two men were no exception.

Which was, perhaps, the intent.

He strode forward purposely, his solid, lithe frame holding not an ounce of extra weight, every step, the constant, strategic movement of his eyes all executed with military precision.

And every ounce of his poise belying his actual state.

To any not looking close enough, that was.

Detective Fusco was looking close enough.

The shorter man clearly possessed much less practiced wit, his eyes flickering around to the likeness of a deer caught in headlights. One ought to have told him that maintaining such poise—or rather, the lack thereof—was only counterproductive.

Regardless, as the ex-CIA agent drew closer, Fusco easily took in the anomalies so craftily disguised from the casual, bypassing eye.

He took in the long trench coat that, while not atypical, was unbefitting of the current weather conditions. He took in the shadowed stubble on the usually clean-shaven jaw. He took in the dark crimson gash above the man's brow. The nearly black bruise from cheek to jaw. The inescapable signs of exhaustion dominating every feature. The subtle, barely there…_limp?_—was it possible Fusco had imagined that last one?

The man came to a stop before him. In typical John Reese fashion and despite Fusco's startled reaction and close scrutiny, his countenance gave nothing away. The man's limitless ability to maintain a poker face had always been both undeniably impressive and endlessly irritating to Fusco. That was nothing new. Nor was Reese's complete absence of small talk as well as any form of a greeting. The man had always been one to get directly to the point.

What _was_ unusual, however, was the extent of his stoic façade. Even Fusco's less than flattering remark on his appearance—something along the lines of him resembling death warmed up, with Fusco's choice of words being perhaps even more vividly visual and blunt—failed to provoke any kind of reaction from Reese. _That_ was unusual indeed. The absence of any quick-witted or wry retort from Reese set off a number of alarm bells in Fusco's mind. Reese's solemnity accorded to that growing, desolate undercurrent that Fusco just hadn't been able to shake in recent weeks. His gut sank. _Bloody hell_. Just _once _couldn't_ Mr. Tall, dark, and gloomy_ come to him with _good_ news? Right. Fusco would sooner see pigs fly.

Reese chose to ignore the detective's wide-eyed reaction to his appearance. He reached into the front of his black overcoat and withdrew a manila envelope. "Jerome Dixon. Guy in your custody."

Fusco was already shaking his head. "No. _Oh_, no." He waved the envelope away. "Not until you give me some answers."

Reese was unperturbed, his hand not lowering an inch as he continued to hold the file out in front of him. "You have two choices, detective. You either help ensure Dixon's twelve year-old niece lives to see her thirteenth birthday, or you don't. Your choice."

Fusco snatched the file from his hand. "That's a low blow. A low blow, and you know it."

A teen on a skateboard careened past them and Fusco only spared him a cursory glance, eyes refocusing on the man before him. "For pity's sake, I thought you were all _dead."_

"As far as you're concerned, Lionel, we are dead."

"What the hell does that mean?"

Reese didn't answer.

Fusco exhaled loudly. "You at least want to tell me why you look like dead Frankenstein walking?"

"Let's just say having a day job isn't as easy as it looks."

Fusco snorted. "You, a day job? Yeah, right. And pink dogs also fly." He opened his mouth to add more but stopped when he saw Reese's expression. "Wait, you telling me you're serious?"

"Jerome Dixon. What do you know about him?"

"You can't just spring something like that on me without some kind of explanation!"

A dog barked from nearby, and Fusco passed a hand over his eyes before glancing up at his companion again. Reese's inscrutable expression hadn't budged. But neither had his haggard appearance. Fusco had only seen the ex-op in any such comparable state once before, and if he was honest he found it extremely disquieting. The man had always seemed so indestructible that seeing him in such a clearly weakened state was unsettling. Fusco had to remind himself that despite the ex-operative's near supernatural, black ops, kind of talents, he was still flesh and bone human just like the rest of them.

Fusco had to wonder, however, if Reese himself didn't need reminding of that fact. If the stark lines and dark shadows rimming the ex-op's eyes were any indication, he should've been just about collapsing from shear exhaustion. Instead, his gaze was sharp and steady. The startling contrast between his visual appearance and his actual physical bearing was chilling. The man was unbelievable.

"I don't have all day, Lionel. Dixon. Tell me what you know."

Fusco shook his head, stupefied. "Yeah, yeah, Dixon. I heard you the first time. Rap sheet taller than he is…. Extortion, money laundering, drug trafficking, pimping, yada, yada…You name it, he's done it. Real slime ball. Of course that's nothing new."

Not for the first time Fusco's anxiously flickering gaze stopped on the uniformed state trooper and city parks department security officer conversing at the far corner of the park. _Park security, my ass,_ thought Fusco.

"Are there some hidden explosives in the park I don't know about?"

Fusco's gaze snapped back at Reese's sardonic remark. The ex-op was watching the detective, seemingly completely unconcerned by the pair across the park from them, much to Fusco's annoyance.

"You need to relax, detective," Reese observed. "Remember what I said earlier. We really do have to work on your skill set."

Fusco shot him a glare. "You picked a hell of a time to go off the grid, you know that?"

From a distance one could see the shadowed movement of the much smaller figure as it approached the two men, one of whom was completely oblivious, the other only ostensibly so.

Reese's movement was so swift that Fusco barely had time to register it. If one had deduced based on the ex-op's battle-worn appearance that a diminution in reflexes would've naturally followed, they would have been sorely mistaken.

Fusco looked from Reese's coolly collected expression down to the now struggling to get free kid in his grasp. No more than ten years old, the boy wore a dark hoody that was slipping from his head to reveal a dirt-smeared face. Wrist trapped in Reese's unyielding grip from where the ex-op had caught it just inches from his pocket, it was quite plain to conclude what had transpired. Doubtless, the boy had chosen the wrong coat to pickpocket.

After a skillful sweep of his eyes over the boy to appraise threats, Reese released him without a word or a second glance, and the kid ran off as fast as his legs could carry him.

Dumbfounded, and having not even _seen_ the boy approach, Fusco stared after him. "You just letting him go?" he blurted stupidly.

Reese, having reasonably decided the question didn't warrant an immediate answer, tossed an object at the detective.

Fusco scrambled but managed to catch it in the one hand that wasn't still holding the manila file. He looked down at the object and all he could do was shake his head. His wallet. He half expected another insult from Reese at his total lack of awareness and street-smart, but the taller man's features were once again grimly solemn.

"We have more important things to worry about," was all he said.

Fusco didn't doubt it. But he was beginning to wonder if he shouldn't slug the man to insure that he was indeed human. While Fusco may not have possessed Reese's skill, he hadn't been given the title of _detectiv_e for nothing. His suspicion as to why Reese was wearing the long coat despite the weather had been confirmed; the labels had parted briefly when Reese had seized the boy.

Fusco had not missed the glimpse of red.

Reese was more injured than he was letting on.

Fusco didn't doubt there was more than just that concealed behind the calmly efficient veneer.

The ex-CIA agent's eyes were swiveling, acutely alert. Even more so now. Pickpocketing had never been commonplace in secure, surveilled locations such as that of Washington Square Park.

That fact had not been lost on either of the two men.

Fusco had seen enough in recent weeks to know it was neither unexpected nor unprecedented. When the behemoths of society became disreputably capricious, society itself would follow.

The detective gestured with his wallet. "Like I said," he continued with a nod, "You picked _one hell_ of a time to go off the grid." He re-pocketed the wallet. "Whole world's going to hell."

A woman in well-worn looking clothes ushered her young son past them, a baseball clutched in the latter's tiny hand as if it were a prized possession. Reese's gaze lingered briefly over the pair as they hurried up the path near the park's south end, then returned to the shorter man, any drop in his veneer firmly replaced. "I'm aware of the situation, Lionel," he said with a touch of impatience.

"Yeah?" Fusco challenged. The detective had a pretty strong suspicion Reese was much more than just aware of the situation. He also knew the direct approach would get him less than nowhere with the ex-agent.

"You have any idea what it's been like working homicide these past weeks? Really could've used some help, you know," he said pointedly. "But you and Glasses decided to take a vacation." There was a pause. "Where is Glasses, anyway?" Something in Reese's eyes flickered at the mention of his former employer, and Fusco's gaze zoned in on the absence of the normally ever-present earpiece in the taller man's right ear. "Wait a minute. You did rescue him from the psychopath that kidnapped him, right? I mean, he's not still—"

"He's fine." Reese's tone was terse.

Fusco eyed him skeptically. "You sure about that? Because you don't look so sure."

"I'm not his keeper, Lionel," Reese said with irritation now. "He was fine the last time I saw him."

"The last time you saw him," Fusco echoed, disbelief plain on his face. "What does that mean?"

"It means, Lionel," Reese said with mounting impatience, "that I don't have time for this." Ignoring the way Fusco shook his head when his questions were once again deftly avoided, Reese nodded at the file. "There should be enough there to hold him for a couple more days until we get something more concrete," he said, referring to the dossier package on Dixon. "I need you to make sure he stays in police custody until then."

Fusco snorted. "You're kidding, right? This guy's got fancy-pants lawyers coming out of his ass. Ain't nothing but concrete evidence gonna stick."

"Well you'd better figure out a way to _make _it stick, Lionel. Unless you'd rather be preparing condolences to Lena Dixon's family for when they come to ID the body."

"Fabulous," Fusco grumbled. "Thanks for nothing. How am I supposed to know when you have enough on this piece of garbage? How do I contact you?" He held the file under his arm and withdrew from his breast pocket the phone Reese had called him on.

"You don't," Reese said without faltering. "I'll contact you. And I'll need you to destroy that," he added, indicating the phone.

Fusco eyed it. "Why?" he demanded. "What is it with you and phones? If you're still trying to stay under the radar why did you want to meet _here?_ Place is a hornet's nest for privacy activists. Mass surveillance at its finest." Fusco's eyes darted around uneasily at the security cameras mounted around the park. Ever since the DOD leaked black budget report scandal, privacy activists had been popping up out of the woodwork left right and center. _And disappearing just as promptly_, Fusco thought to himself. _Just as promptly and much too cleanly_. And what was more was that they did have a point, Fusco thought. The idea of the government having unfettered access to eavesdrop on personal communications with no mechanism for accountability wasn't a comforting prospect.

Reese was still calmly collected. "Haven't you ever heard of hiding in plain sight, Lionel?"

"Would you stop with the cryptic crap and answer the damn question for once?"

Reese raised his brow but didn't respond.

"Yeah, that's what I thought. How about this, then. Why _now?_ You disappear without a trace, dozens of cold ones turn up, some with the same type of MO you'd usually stop, and now, almost three months later, you reappear out of thin air, information on someone in trouble in hand just like old times. This girl something special to bring you back into the game? What about all the others in between, huh? 'Cause I can tell you right now that there have been others, others just like Lena Dixon. Many others. I've seen the bodies, seen the files, watched most of them get tossed aside when they're declared _not worth_ NYPD's budget and limited personal. So what about _them?_ I'd call you out for picking and choosing who you want save in your vigilante regime, but I know you better than that, know you must have a damn good explanation. So let's hear it. Just what the _hell_ is going on?"

Reese's lips were pressed together in a grim line. "I can't tell you that."

Fusco responded with a derisive smile. "And, lo and behold, we have a straight answer!"

"Histrionics won't get you anywhere, detective."

"No? How about you tell me what will, then, because I think you owe me a better answer than that."

Reese directed his gaze skyward as if counting to ten, and breathed out audibly. "We were compromised, Lionel. We had no choice but to disappear. That's all you need to know."

Fusco's smile was humorless. "Allow me to enlighten you, because _clearly_ you don't know _shit_ as much as you think you do.

"Ever since that godforsaken blackout I have been up to my eyeballs with cases. Unsolved. Unexplained. Missing evidence. Redacted case files. Disappearances. Demotions. Promotions. Whole department reshuffling. The Feds, DHS, DOD, _DCIS_, and everyone's bloody _uncle_ breathing down my neck, concealing evidence, covering tracks, pulling files.

"Shit's hit the fan. Can't trust anyone. And I mean _anyone_. I don't know what the hell is going on, and I sure as anything don't know why, but damned if there isn't some sort of abuse or corruption going on at the highest levels of government. _Damned_ if there isn't something insidious going on in our own backyard. Two days ago I watched a five-year-old kid with three bullet holes go in a body bag, watched the mother dragged from the body while the _Feds_ buried evidence.

"So don't you _dare_ stand here and tell me that's _all I need_ to know."

Reese was silent for a long moment, and for the first time that day Fusco could note the strain on his face. Finally, he spoke.

"We've been working together a long time, detective. You are one of very few people privy to the type of work that we did."

Fusco shifted uncomfortably. He had an inkling of where this was heading.

"You knew the breadth of our information, you knew its reliability; you never questioned us for its origins," Reese summated. "Now Finch," His lips edged up in an ironic kind of smile, "Finch always thought your lack of inquiries was simply because you weren't the inquisitive type." His eyes were trained on Fusco now, and he spoke with that calm efficiency that never failed to intimidate those on the receiving end. "I knew better." He paused. "In fact, it was one of the reasons I chose you in the first place."

A wind had picked up, sending Reese's coat billowing and Fusco's tie flapping. Neither man budged.

"Because, you see, Lionel," continued Reese, "you were one of very few people who knew when to stop asking questions."

The words hung in the air for several seconds, their connotation plain.

"And it's the only reason you were spared," he finished in a detached tone. "It's the only reason you weren't forced to flee right along with the rest of us. It's the only reason your life is still your own."

There was a mark of an infinite kind of sadness when the last line was spoken, something that not even the ex-agent could conceal.

A long silence followed, the movement of those around them seeming somehow muted. Fusco did not speak.

Finally, Reese turned to leave, his unflappable expression still in place. "Do yourself a favor, detective," he said as he glanced back over at the shorter man. "Don't start asking."

Reese was halfway poised to walk away before Fusco finally found is voice. "Tell me something," he said loudly, causing Reese to stop and look back over his shoulder. "This thing you're up against, whatever the hell it is, whoever the hell's involved, it's obviously bigger than all of us, bigger than your everyday piece of trash like Dixon. So why are you still playing vigilante hero? Why come back and rescue an ant in a battlefield? Seems to me like you have more important things to worry about."

Reese didn't answer right away. His eyes moved over the now dwindling crowd of people hurrying about the park around them before landing on the detective again. "If you had information," he said finally, "information that someone was planning a violent crime, from a source that's never wrong, could you just stand by and do nothing?" With that, the ex-agent turned and started walking back the way he'd come.

"Hey," Fusco called out again to his retreating back—where he noted that he had not been imagining things earlier; the ex-agent's stride was ever so slightly off-balance.

Reese stopped again but didn't turn.

"That's all fine and dandy, Wonderboy," Fusco admonished, breaking somewhat into their normal camaraderie. "But you won't be any good to anyone if you're _dead_."

Reese didn't answer. He just resumed walking.

A few seconds after his tall form had disappeared from sight, Fusco jumped as the phone in his hand bleeped. He glanced down at the two words illuminated on the display.

_Thank you_

Fusco shook his head dubiously once more, knowing it was, in part, a reference to his earlier rant and Reese's penchant for never affording him any kind of gratitude.

The more troublesome realization, however, was that he could recall only one other instance in which Reese had outwardly extended him gratitude.

It had been about a year and a half ago.

It had been when the ex-agent had been strapped to a bomb vest and about to step out onto the roof of a building to die.


End file.
